


where there's moonlight, I see your eyes

by Wallyallens



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Eyes, F/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 04:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11501562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallyallens/pseuds/Wallyallens
Summary: prompt on tumblr: rosvolio + eyes. aka, Rosaline and Benvolio and eye contact in the first four episodes.





	where there's moonlight, I see your eyes

The first time he sees her, Rosaline’s eyes are filled with candlelight and a tint of rose-coloured amusement at the scene before them, as their cousins are joined in hand and heart in marriage in a deserted church with no witnesses except for the two of them. She rolls her eyes and looks at him with disdain, and although her lips move to say that she disagrees with the marriage, they curve up at the edges at her cousin’s joy when she thinks nobody is looking. Benvolio is. Rosaline catches him watching, barely a meeting of their eyes that fall flat with fear, knowing that this will not end well, before she looks away.

Benvolio Montague has eyes that match the smirk on his lips – sharp, bright, deceptive. She knows that she cannot trust eyes so dangerous. They gleam under the dim candlelight, as he jokes and jibes like they’re not watching a disaster unfold before them, offering a hand out – but there’s something almost earnest in his eyes as he does. Rosaline tells herself that it’s a trick of the light and turns away. He’s a _Montague_ , and Romeo and Juliet are enough trouble to be dealing with for now, without her making the mistake of trusting one of them. The disappointment that shines there for a fraction of a second as he drops his gaze sends a shiver down her spine all the same.

The second time they meet, Rosaline walks into the palace with defiance in her eyes, walking like her steps could leave earthquakes; as the conversation goes on, those eyes dim with confusion and begin to dart around the room, from Prince Escalus to him to the door. When the announcement is made that they shall marry, her eyes widen in shock. Rosaline’s mouth falls open, and there’s an instant glint of revulsion in her eyes as they turn to him, disbelief etched across her face and she _hates_ him, Benvolio can see that, but it’s all he has time to see before she runs away. Later, he finds her kissing the Prince in a chapel, but the same defiance is back in her eyes when she turns to stare up at him, tears still shining on her face. Where she had turned listless and dead at the announcement, there is a spark back in her gaze now.

In the confusion after the words are said – that she is to marry a Montague – Rosaline’s mind reels and pitches into a panic that leaves her breathless. She scans the room, looking for someone to crack a smile and for this all to be in jest, but the line of Escalus’ jaw remains determined, cold; the rest of the faces she meets are grim and stony – except for his. The Montague. Her _betrothed_. He looks as shocked as she feels, eyes widening and head snapping towards her, green-blue eyes swirling with the same panic she feels fluttering between her ribcage. This is all she has time to see before she turns on heels and flees the room. The next time she sees those eyes, she can still taste Escalus on her lips and the confusion has fallen from the Montague’s face, replaced with a grim line of resignation and eyes that reveal nothing. He stares down at them from the balcony, but it is _her_ eyes that he is meeting, and he does not look away.

He sees her again and there’s candlelight dancing in her eyes, like the first time they met, except this time they are at the Prince’s party and the shrewd way her eyes are darting across the crowd isn’t directed at him. Benvolio counts this as an improvement. Rosaline is watching the other guests carefully, lips set in a parted line as she assesses, and how anyone could think she was going to take this quietly, he could not guess. All it took was one look at her to see this was a woman plotting; with more intelligence behind her eyes than most people in the room, she was staring them all down like they were a challenge, and when she turns that gaze on him, paired with a victorious little smile, he has to look away. Benvolio tilts his head back to hers just in time to see her eyes shining, before she returns to assessing the crowd, and if anyone can get them out of this – she can. He’s starting to believe the myth of her, and who knew when that happened?

At Escalus’ party, the Montague is all snark and no substance, leaning close to her with eyes both hard and soft – sharp as a flint and calculating as they speak, but _with_ her and not against her – but it’s watching him at the dinner table that really catches Rosaline’s attention. The sarcastic eyes as they spoke was comfortable ground, and what she expected of him: when he flinches at the sound of Escalus thudding his hands against the table, eyes downcast as the shouting begins and biting the inside of his cheek, from the way his jaw kept locking, _that_ is surprising. Benvolio doesn’t try to argue as the other lords do, as stuck and silent while other men talk for him as she was – he kept his eyes down, but when he does lift them, it’s to her – and there’s a soft resignation in his eyes, shifting tones in the candlelight, and a subtle pricking of discontent with the violence on display. It’s the first chink in his armour that Rosaline sees.

Acting has never been one of Benvolio’s strong points. Pretending to be in love with the Capulet while half of Verona gawked at them like they would a public hanging, the heavy anticipation of things falling apart in the air, leaves him feeling slightly queasy and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. But Rosaline – she’s a natural at it. When she leans close to him, nothing in her eyes betray that her lips are lying as she declares _I’m counting the hours_ and looks at him softly, such a tenderness in his eyes that he hasn’t seen before that it hurts to breathe. There’s still the glimmer of intelligence, still the calculating edge to her eyes, a shark looking for blood when she turns her gaze on the Prince coldly, and Benvolio is glad that he was not one of the idiots who underestimated Rosaline Capulet.

The Montague’s eyes are tight, pinched at the eyes, as he plays along forcibly with their sham charade of a love story. There’s a trapped expression in them as she steps closer, eyes glazing over for the rest of the conversation as he rolls with the punches, nodding blankly and never letting the frozen grin drop from his face. As soon as they are alone, the Montague rubs a hand over tired eyes and turns to her more seriously as they sit, still looking restricted as he offers her an escape – but he isn’t demanding as most men would, he’s asking, eyes pleading for her to take the offer and set them both free. She still doesn’t trust him – she can’t, he’s a Montague – but Rosaline can read no deception in his steady eyes, unblinkingly looking back at her. She agrees to take the escape to the nunnery and see’s something shift in his eyes; it looks like _relief._

When she appears at the top of the steps for their betrothal ceremony, Benvolio can see the same resignation in her eyes that he knows is reflected in his own. Rosaline’s face is still as she reaches him, but her eyes are glazed over, hazy, like she doesn’t quite believe they are both standing there. When he presses his lips to her cheek, just enough to graze her skin, she whispers _I’m sorry_ into his ear. As she leans back, he sees a flicker in her eyes that shows her words are the truth, and so was his soft reply: _me too_. Honesty between them was common – he did not lie to her, they would achieve nothing by deceit – but genuine emotion was. In that moment, he thinks that this is the first time he has seen her be so true, worried eyes shining as she takes his hand under the marquee. But her eyes keep darting to the prince, and his to Stella in the crowd, so there is little he can do to ease the ache of longing hanging between them.

The explosion nearly rocks her from her feet, and Rosaline is only vaguely aware of the swarming bodies around her or the Montague’s hand on her, holding her steady – her eyes search the crowd for her sister. Everything she did, it was all for Livia. It’s only when she sees her sister safe that Rosaline looks away: the Montague is looking at her, eyes sharp with something that could be worry, but she is turning quickly and running, following the dark-clothed figure across the rooftops. He follows, complaining, until they pause and she explains. The Montague’s eyes turn from irritated to invested, clearing with understanding as he cuts her loose and still follows her anyway. On the roof, the calmness fades. His eyes become stormy seas as he argues with Trucchio, but when the other man falls – they still. The Montague steps away numbly. It isn’t until they stand safely on street level that a familiar expression takes control of his face, softening to jesting as he steps closer – and her first assessment had been right, those eyes were dangerous. And close. So close. She has to bite her lip as she walks away, thinking of _and here I thought you were counting the hours_ for a long time afterwards.

Benvolio starts the day wishing the Capulet would stay behind and stay out of trouble, but quickly discovers that watching her face change as she took in the brothel was too amusing to miss out on. Her eyes change from sharp anger to defiance to . . . something close to horrified. She smirks and argues back and her eyes shine – just an inch away from his own, telling him that his picture isn’t very good and rolling her eyes when it leads them to a suspect. It’s hard to hold down a smile when she looks so haughty and annoyed, even more so when he is proven wrong and she looks back at him with _I told you so_ written over her features. Not knowing why, Benvolio follows her when she leaves, intending to see her safely home and strangely moved to see that she does. But she doesn’t go home: she breaks into a deserted house on the edge of Verona, and turns to him with eyes wet with tears and angrier than he’d ever seen her. Rosaline’s eyes strike both thunder and lightning into him, as the words hit as heavily as thunderbolts, leaving Benvolio staring back at a shattered girl, seeing the fractures in her. She cracks; crumbles, and he has to look away because she’s too much to hold in a gaze; she’d drown the whole world with her tears and eat him raw and do it all looking so righteously angry that he believes that he deserves it.

The Montague is _scared_. It’s not a look Rosaline has ever seen on his face before – he had been shut down and appeared subdued when she had shouted at him earlier, but this was entirely different – looking up at her with eyes fit for bursting, whites showing at the edges, his fear stands out starkly in the darkness. And despite it – he tells her to run, and there is nothing hidden in his gaze, no agenda, no hatred, no argument – just fear and fear and fear, so she runs. The expression haunts her. She finds herself speaking out for him, defending his innocence even though she sees the way it turns Escalus’ eyes hard – she does not care, because no amount of hardness could erase the look on the Montague’s face from her memory, and because he cannot speak out for himself, her own voice does not shake as she speaks out _for_ him. The next time she sees him, it is unexpected – the Montague is standing below her balcony in the middle of the night, and he is begging her to go with him, tears shining in his eyes even in the low light. He – _Benvolio_ – is shaking, eyes open and vulnerable in a way she has never seen them before, but the fear is one she recognises. His eyes lock on to hers, and it is not a gaze that she can ignore. He is broken and bleeding and fraying at the edges, unashamedly crying in the street, and what other choice is there – she goes with him. When she arrives on the street, his eyes fill with gratitude and clear of tears, and they set off into the night.

It’s not until later that something she would describe as _hope_ appears in his eyes – even later when it turns to love.

But it’s worth the wait.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr.hell @ jeffersonjaxson


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